February 2013

February 27, 2013

So, it's been eight years of blogging now with goodness knows how many posts and thousands of photos, and it has certainly been one heck of an education. But, as anyone who writes one knows, a blog takes tremendous amounts of time, energy, thought, and imagination in order to make it interesting and worth reading. And, as here, it's often all done for free.

In addition to the blog, I've also written thirteen books (there will be a quilting book out in January 14, and there are three more Clever Concepts titles in the pipeline). I am tremendously proud of this fact, and still get a thrill every time I see one of my books in a bookshop. Recently, though, I have been taking a break from book-writing because I realised that the arrangement wasn't working in a satisfactory way. This is quite simply because I couldn't begin to support myself, let alone any dependents, on what I earn from my writing, and it's increasingly difficult to reconcile the enormous amounts of time and work involved in writing books and a blog with the financial side of things. It's a matter of self-respect, too.

I now need some thinking time to consider my options. Do I 'monetise' the blog by accepting advertising, saying yes to freebies and gifts, agreeing to sponsored posts, by selling books and patterns? Or do I stop writing the blog in order to focus on writing books which pay an advance against royalties, even though as everyone in publishing knows advances ain't what they used to be? Do I, perhaps, join the growing numbers of authors who self-publish? Or, is it time now, as they say on Monty Python, for something completely different?

I'm going be away from the blog for a while so that I can focus on how best to use my time. I'll be right back once I've figured things out.

February 25, 2013

A weekend in Stockport with my family. Coincidentally, Alice was also in Stockport for a university friend's party, but this isn't her jug. Alice is named after my grandmother Alice whose story is straight out of Family Secrets. She died when I was just eight, and this jug has always been on a shelf in my Mum's house. But in all those years, it's never held any flowers. As Alice was the person who taught me a great deal about gardens and flowers (she had lupins and forget-me-nots and a little winding path), I thought it was the ideal container for the tulips I brought, and even Mum agreed once I'd put it down in a safe place.

A weekend in Stockport with my family is also a powerful reminder of northern humour. I cried with laughter at the stories my brother and sister (twins who were born when I was just eight) told about their teenage years, the stuff I never knew about because I'd already left home. Seeing the jug, hearing the stories, driving up the dour A6 pointing out childhood landmarks to my Alice, made me realise I'll never be a fully paid-up southerner. Unlike Tony Bennett and San Francisco, I didn't leave my heart in Stockport but there's definitely some part of me that's still up there.

February 21, 2013

Simon has gone from snow in China to heat in Thailand this week. The extremes here are a little less dramatic and range from bitterly cold winds outside during the day to a warm bed inside at night. A hot water bottle does the trick, but I wouldn't mind some really warm air and sunshine and the sort of Thai green curry that Simon is always telling me about when he gets back.

I've just reread The Village in bed and it's absolutely wonderful night-time and frosty morning reading (I was so gripped, even though I know the story and my hands were freezing above the duvet, that I had to finish it before I got up this morning). It's a gimlet-eyed study in snobbery and class distinction which made me teeter on the edge of disbelief: how could anybody live with such circumscribed social rules, an immutable belief in their own superiority, and a dread of gossip that prevents them from behaving well? Yet I know this is drawn from life, that it still happens, and although I felt sorry for the Trevors because their lives are so sadly empty, I was angry that they and their kind can wreak such damage in others' lives simply because they believe that their way of life and their background entitle them to do so.

I'm also reading Family Secrets by Deborah Cohen which focuses on the idea of shame, privacy, and secrecy within families. It's fascinating to read this is tandem with such books as The Village which deal with the same subject but in a fictionalised form, and sobering to realise that while we might think we are more enlightened and shame-free than previous generations, we are still expected to (and do) feel shame, keep family secrets, and adhere to a social code we don't always agree with. It's a brave person who steps outside and beyond the accepted norm, and that's why books like The Village are just as important now as they were when they were written.

Serious stuff, but worth taking to your bed to think about.

[Hot water bottle cover knitted for Persephone Books made with Rowan Wool & Cotton using the pattern in Knitting by Sarah Dallas, a favourite set of patterns which never seem to date.]

February 14, 2013

For us the idea of Valentine's Day is lost in the mists of time and memories of giving birth to twins. Yes, it was twenty years ago today that Tom and Alice were born in a hospital outside Frankfurt. That's twenty years of twins and twenty years of double birthday cakes. And twenty years of beautiful bunches of tulips from Simon.

I had no idea on Saturday 13th February 1993 that I would be having the babies the next day (they were three and a half weeks early) so in the small hours of 14th February as I was whisked off in an ambulance, I kept asking Simon to bring my Valentine's Day tulips to the hospital (given on the 13th because those were the days when nothing was open on a Sunday). Sensibly he concentrated on things like toothpaste and slippers instead. But ever since then he's been making sure I do have tulips on 14th February.

[chocolate cake for Tom]

I didn't have any vision of how Tom and Alice would be at 20. But as they both happen to be at home today (it's university reading week), I can say thay they are looking pretty good.

February 13, 2013

At senior school, a few of us were so keen to imbibe as much theatre, literature, film and art as possible that we thought about starting up a 'culture club'. But the idea never got off the ground and, anyway, I thought the name 'Culture Club' wasn't helping matters. (It never held back Boy George a few years later, though).

I've been continuing in this cultural vein ever since. So of course I booked in adavance for the Manet exhibition. Of course I made sure I was there for my timed entry slot. Of course I queued for the cloakroom, queued for the ladies, queued to get in, queued to buy postcards. Of course I made my way as slowly as everyone else round the rooms, craning my neck to see the paintings, waiting patiently for a gap to appear so I could see a whole one, waiting even longer to get close enough to read the captions. And I sped through the 'padding out' rooms (blown-up map of Paris, enlarged copy of painting, C19 photographs) which seemed to me to be there as crowd decompression chambers as much as anything else.

Of course, there were some absolutely wonderful paintings (but there were also too many poor ones - a bit of surprise). I loved the way Manet uses black paint but conjures up brilliant light effects, the way he captures personality and mood, the way that you can see the connection between him and his sitter. But you do come out feeling as though you've been extruded though a cultural sausage machine.

[Stocks in a White Vase (c.1930) Leslie Hunter

What a delight, then, to discover that just round the corner from the Royal Academy is the Fleming Collection, an 'embassy' for Scottish painting in a beautiful building. It's free to go in, virtually empty, and has just held a lovely exhibition of paintings by Leslie Hunter (1877-1931) who was one of the four Scottish Colourists. It was on two floors and there was a generous numbers of works (although, again, a few duds which served to highlight just how good Hunter could be).

Hunter once wrote, 'Everyone must choose his own way, and mine will be the way of colour', and this exhibition could not have been a greater contrast with the Manet in terms of palette as well as visitor numbers. Hunter's still lifes were the stars here, and the thickly applied paint, the gorgeous depth and vibrancy of his colours, the confidence and élan were wonderful to behold.

[Still Life with Marguerites (1930) Leslie Hunter]

In later life Hunter suffered 'increasing ill-health', a euphemism for drinking himself to death, and you can see the effects in the marguerites painting above. I can't imagine why it was chosen for the exhibition poster as it's a sad still life which looks as though it was painted while he was unwell and under the influence: the flowers are unsteady and listing, there are messy blood-red splashes and drips, and close up the whole thing looks desperate and wild.

Both Manet and Hunter died in their early 50s; Hunter ended up squandering his talent while Manet was not given enough time to explore the full extent of his gifts. Both were worth going to - but much as I love landmark exhibitions, these days I think any culture club I might belong to would have to meet in places where it's possible to actually see and breathe.

February 11, 2013

We have a full house, and I am surrounded by strong-willed people. People who are much, much better at self-control than me. A month without chocolate here, a month without fizzy drinks there, a total cutting-out of rubbish food until a bad habit has been broken, abstention from alcohol as required, a foregoing of biscuits for weeks on end. All I do is clear kitchen drawers of offending items, stop buying and baking further supplies, and offer tea and sympathy when temptation threatens to spoil good runs and personal bests.

Lent has become a testing time for other people. There have been big discussions about what will be given up this year and promises made to encourage and support. As I've never taken any notice of Lent in my whole life (and, it has to be said, neither have the others until the last couple of years when it has happened to coincide with, and be a good vehicle for, competitive denial/one-upsmanship/moral high ground claims), I am bemused by the enthusiasm being shown for asceticism.

But, like those coaches who travel behind the shockingly thin elite cyclists in cushioned car comfort (and no doubt with a good supply of snacks), I am prepared to support my own team of Lent competitors. To this end, I am baking buns today, pancakes tomorrow, then hiding my chocolate for the next six and a half weeks.